


Naughty or nice

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A-Z Christmas Prompt, Christmas Smut, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: The first thing John noticed when he woke up was a shadow, a figure, leaning over him, and for a moment he only stared at it, wondering if it was really there at all or if it was only part of some lingering dream he couldn’t remember. If it was just his mind playing tricks. It happened from time to time. To him, to others. The mind liked to find things in nothing, to feel safe in familiarity, and so would try to make sense of shapes and space, of reality, by sculpting and connecting lines into recognisable figures, objects. This time it was in the form of a person and it took John a moment to realise that the person was Sherlock, that he’d somehow already known it was Sherlock. On some deeper level, on an instinctive level, he’d known who it was.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 7
Kudos: 94





	Naughty or nice

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Gem_Gem: I know some of these stories aren't coming out exactly on the day, especially this one, but it was started on the day, so technically... it so counts!  
> Also, please don't be too mad with poor, poor John. He's scared and confused. They both are really, but we get to see more of John's through his thoughts and emotions.   
> John doesn't want things to change, yet does. He thinks his feelings are nothing, yet doesn't. He prefers Sherlock as just a friend, yet wants more.  
> He will go in circles. On the outside we can shout and point and tut, but when you're in that situation, it messes with your head. Especially will so many emotions and things on the line.

The first thing John noticed when he woke up was a shadow, a figure, leaning over him, and for a moment he only stared at it, wondering if it was really there at all or if it was only part of some lingering dream he couldn’t remember. If it was just his mind playing tricks. It happened from time to time. To him, to others. The mind liked to find things in nothing, to feel safe in familiarity, and so would try to make sense of shapes and space, of reality, by sculpting and connecting lines into recognisable figures, objects. This time it was in the form of a person and it took John a moment to realise that the person was Sherlock, that he’d somehow already known it was Sherlock. On some deeper level, on an instinctive level, he’d known who it was.

Sherlock blinked down at him and moved closer, though not towards John’s face, to his waist, where his crotch was exposed from a flipped back and crumpled piece of the blanket. John frowned, heart suddenly all he could hear, and watched as Sherlock bent his head until the tip of his nose skimmed the hard shape of John’s morning erection through the worn, soft fabric of his pyjama bottoms. It shot a thrilling jolt throughout his body, made him twitch and inhale sharply, and though he knew he should move, should question Sherlock’s actions, push him away, do something, he just lay there, watching as Sherlock breathed down against him and then returned his gaze, eyes dark silver.

It only took another moment of that, of staring, of breathing, of being aware of each other and what was being offered, before John’s arm shifted into movement mindlessly and he hooked his thumb into the waistband of his bottoms, bowing them down enough for his cock to bob free, rigid and dusky in the gloom, sensitive head tingling in the cooler air. It felt stupidly good. Filthily good. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, knew that there were reasons to stop, to cover back up, to push Sherlock away and out, but he was vibrating, was hot, was still half asleep, and so did nothing to stop it, to pause his fingers from taking himself at the base to lift the thick line of himself towards Sherlock’s parting lips. Wanting it and perhaps foolishly accepting it. All rational thought smothered by arousal.

Sherlock kissed John’s skin first, sampling a few inches of it and following it up to the glans, then he shyly, timidly, sucked it into his mouth, the wet heat of his curious tongue almost too much for John to bear. He took his time with it all, dragging out every minute motion of his lips, every added bit of suction, every lapping swirling slide of his tongue, all while retaining eye contact with John, cheeks blushing blotchily in the hazy early morning light. It felt surreal, utterly surreal, and John wondered for a moment whether it was, whether he wasn’t just sleeping, dreaming of this. It had occurred before, of course. He’d had many realistic dreams, both horrific ones and pleasurable ones.

As his cock disappeared into Sherlock’s mouth, up along his palate, nudging very slightly against the back of his scorching throat, he moved his hand to thread into those tempting curls and squeezed a clump, happy to see Sherlock’s instantaneous reaction, to feel it against his wet skin. He continued to pet, stroke, tug, and ruffle through that hair until Sherlock was gasping wetly and writhing into it, legs threatening to buckle hard enough to have him crouch down and then kneel beside the bed. John added a scrap of his nails and Sherlock slumped forward, offering up his vulnerable, white nape, which John was happy to touch, dipping his fingertips beneath the loose collar of Sherlock’s soft cotton t-shirt.

It didn’t take long for John to want more, to completely throw caution to the wind on whether or not it was a dream, and he sat up to grab and heave Sherlock up on the bed, throwing him down on his back. The look of surprise was a gorgeous sight to see, even in the low light, and John took a few seconds to reveal, to remember, before he pushed his hand down on the straining bulge of Sherlock’s erection. It pulsed under his palm and Sherlock gasped with a fringing whimper, arching his hips up an inch in a tensed buck, chest heaving and face reddened. He looked wanton and promiscuous and desirous, and he was shivering, fidgeting, blinking up at John with wide eager eyes. It was beautiful. It was his final undoing.

Pushing up Sherlock’s t-shirt and tucking it under his armpits out of the way, John then peeled down Sherlock’s pyjama trousers to release the engorged length to his gaze, his hand, and then his mouth as he bent down to take it as deep as he was able. There had been some time since he’d thought about doing it, since he’d done it to himself one lonely and embarrassing day in his late teens, but he knew the basics, knew what he liked, what felt good, and so he indulged in different techniques. Sherlock tasted of soap and skin and heat and musk, a delicious tangy delicacy. Elegant. Just like the man himself.

Being as pent up and overwhelmed as Sherlock apparently was, it didn’t take long for him to sheepishly touch John’s head in warning and arch, choking on sharply inhaled breaths and stuttering groans, cock throbbing hard against John’s tongue. John enjoyed the suspense, the thick dribble of pre-ejaculate before the impending climax, and waited, sucking and tasting, until the last minute, to which he pulled away and watched as Sherlock spilled copiously up his own torso with a grimacing whimper of rapture.

Maddeningly aroused, John took himself in hand, straddled him, knees pushing into the bed either side of Sherlock’s shaking waist, and stared down, locking their gazes again before he stroked and stroked and stroked and twisted and squeezed and caressed, chasing his own apex. It happened after a dozen laboured breaths, when Sherlock reached for him and touched his working hand, touched his torrid skin, and he painted more of Sherlock’s chest in fat stripes of pearly white.

In the midst of getting his breath back, John leaned down limply to push their sweaty brows together and then moved away to clumsily gather some tissues from his drawer to clean him up, rubbing some of it into his nipple as he did so, making Sherlock’s lips part in pleasure. Their eyes never left each other, they stared and stared until John pulled at and pulled off their tops, then shuffled away to slide off his bottoms. Behind him, he heard Sherlock move to do the same, and looked over his shoulder, caught instantly in the man’s gaze once more. Sherlock’s eyes were ethereal in the gloom, both dark and intensely vivid at once. John would get lost in them when they weren’t piercing through him. Would be fascinated with the amount of colours within them, the way they seemed to change in different lighting, like looking into a prism.

When they were both nude, flushes on their bodies lessening with each shaky breath, their hardened flesh now softening, John pulled Sherlock under the covers with him and connected them, skin-to-skin, thinking about kissing him, before the deafening ring of his alarm shattered everything into pieces, “Oh,” he grunted and twisted to turn it off, taking a fleeting pause. “I… have to go to work.”

“No you don’t.”

“...No,” John heard himself whisper, looking into Sherlock’s face as he lay in John’s bed, utterly naked. “But I will..” He took a minute to absorb the sight, to watch Sherlock’s mood change, lips pursed, and then he got out of bed, changed, made a quick sandwich for himself, and left.

He continued to try and convince himself it was a dream, that it couldn't have been real, even though he'd seen Sherlock, felt him, heard him, after the shrill jolt of his alarm. The alarm that always woke him up, always brought him around. He'd really done what he did, hadn't he? Given into that filthy, debauched side of him, the side that always itched, lusting for more, for one more touch of his cock, one more flirtatious comment, one more step to closer. John had given in to it before, for good and bad, but this time... this time it had taken him over, had blinded him with the need to take what he wanted, what he needed, what was being blatantly asked of him. The string of friendship was now well and truly severed, retied, replaced, and it was all his doing, if the string, frayed from the adjustment, snapped, it would be on him. It would all be on him.

Stomping his way towards the tube station, John uncontrollably began giving death glares to anyone who even came even remotely near him, not wanting to be bothered, to be touched, to be looked at, as his brain worked in overtime to try and understand everything, make sense of what happened and how it would now affect him, affect his life, and if there was any way, any at all, to fixing what he'd done. John could have blamed Sherlock, as he had been the one to visit him in his bedroom, could have played the victim and tried to reason that Sherlock had seduced him when he was half asleep, still bleary eyed. That he had been dazzled by the glorious sensations of Sherlock's mouth on his dick. Yet he knew that it wasn't coercion. He hadn't been taken advantage of.

He brooded the entire way to the surgery, surprising Sarah who hadn't expected him in until later. Therefore, with no appointments booked, John took on the emergency clinic and was thankfully occupied enough throughout the day to stop himself from pondering, from panicking, from dreading about what he faced when he returned home. In fact, he stayed as late as he could, so late that it became obviously suspicious and Sarah came to him, tilting her head and asking probing questions, it took everything in him not to snap at her, not to shout, before he bid her goodnight and finally, headed back home. It was a one off, he told himself, it had to be a one off, probably just a reaction from their proximity, from the strange tension and his corrupted feelings. How was he going to explain this to Sherlock? Did it need explaining? What was Sherlock's thoughts during all of it? Why had Sherlock come to his room, why had he done any of it? 

Feeling all the more insecure with his thoughts, his actions, his future, John pushed open the front door to Baker Street and headed upstairs, deciding at the last moment to just go into the living room and pretend that nothing happened. Pretend he hadn't just been incredibly sexual with his friend, his flatmate, that morning, that he hadn't ruined perhaps the most perfect friendship he had ever had. To be a stereotypical British man and avoid awkward confrontation. All confrontation.

Everything was immediately halted, however, when he pushed open the door and was faced with Sherlock himself, staring intently, “Hi,” John said nervously, shifting his footing. “I – I mean, um, how are you doing?”

Sherlock looked him over, scowled, clenched his jaw, his hands, and then marched over to press against him so roughly, so eagerly, that John stumbled a few steps, “ _Shut up_ ,” he husked and slotted their mouths together, kissing John with wild abandon, tongue pushing against and then through the seam of his lips. It was angry, was wanting, and he didn't relent, didn't give John the chance to flee, only held on with a bruising grasp, quaking bodily.

John reached for Sherlock in return for the first few minutes and just held tightly onto him, trying to calm Sherlock, trying to speak to tell him to slow down, to tell him that this was a bad idea, that they needed to talk to understand it and not mess it up anymore than it had been, "Sher—"

" _Stop_!"

This time, when Sherlock tilted his head and opened his jaw for a deeper, thrusting kiss, John felt a fizzle of responding want, an overpowering rush, and like that morning, despite everything he had berated himself for, had panicked about, he gave into it all, gave himself up for more heartache and trouble. Submitted to his base instincts and interests. He kissed back, pushed close, and bumped Sherlock against the door frame, knowing that the poor man would probably bruise tomorrow, but somehow wanting that, eager to be the cause of that. John couldn't and wouldn't stop, not now, and avidly pushed a hand into Sherlock's hair, groaning as he took over, took control and moved them, pressing him up against a wall beside the door.

Frantically, with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers, Sherlock attacked John’s clothes, unbuttoning his shirt, “ _Off_ …” he gasped, already breathing hard, already bulging out the front of his trousers.

“Not in the _doorway._ ” John moved to kick the door closed and then set about pulling off his shirt, yanking on it in such a zealous rush that the last two buttons pinged across the room to clatter somewhere behind the table. Throwing the crumpled material down, not caring where it landed, John reached for Sherlock again, attacking the long, pale neck with his mouth as he abused and adored the beautiful skin, working with Sherlock's motivated digits to strip the man of his shirt as well. " _Fuck_... this is..."

Sherlock's long, lithe torso was already quite mottled with the blossoming flush of intense arousal when it was fully bared to the air, to John’s eyes, nipples rosy and pebbled, begging to be touched, “ _Yes_ … the rest…” he choked out with a croaking voice, head tipped back to arch his throat and give John something to nose at, to open his teeth against, as Sherlock unbuckled John’s belt and whipped it out to throw to one side. It clanged and clinked and banged over the top of the sofa into the wall. "Naked. I want... I want you naked. Now. _Now, please_!"

" _Oh God yes_..." John moaned in agreement and fiddled with his trousers, managing to get the flies open moments before he restlessly pulled them down along with his boxers, bending slightly to shimmy and kick them from his ankles and feet, taking one of Sherlock's nipples in his mouth in the meantime.

It was ridiculous. Standing in their living room completely nude except for socks with the curtains still open and the door unlocked, but he couldn't care less. Nothing seemed to matter to him anymore, not during this, not when his mind had been conquered. He reached to help Sherlock take off his own trousers, salivating when his erect cock was revealed quickly, no underwear confining it, clinging to it, giving the freedom needed for it to jump out eagerly to meet him, red tipped, wet and pulsing with radiating heat. 

Sherlock shuddered with buckling legs, “You were late back,” he whined through gritted teeth, scratching a stinging path down John’s arms. " _Very_ late. You... had me _waiting_. Had me—"

John interrupted him with a reverberating hum and travelled the line of Sherlock's torso to his stomach, where he delved in and around and across his navel, and then onward, down, down to his slender hips to give either side a few sharp, stinging bites, only returning to Sherlock's face, his clever, gorgeous mouth when he'd blown at rosy, moist glans, “Did you miss me?”

“... I _always_ miss you,” he admitted breathlessly, voice so quiet it was almost inaudible, each word enunciated against John’s tingling lips between their sucking kisses. "And it was... rather vital that I... see you after... _after_..."

John kissed the words from Sherlock's lips, locking them away inside him to keep forever and skimmed his hand down Sherlock's sides, across his waist, crisscrossed them along his pelvis, rubbed them into his hips, until he finally brought them, caressed them, central to take hold of his cock, wrapping one around it and carefully, slowly, stroking it from root to tip. He pulled Sherlock's foreskin over the sticky, glistening crown before he twisted his hand and pulled it back down, glacier slow and without haste, feeding on Sherlock's reactions, on the feel of him in his hand.

Sherlock trembled, digging his fingers into John’s shoulders, nails slicing deeper enough that he was sure there would be blood, “ _John_ …” he moaned gutterally, one leg almost giving out, thighs taut with flexing muscles. "John I _can't_..."

“Sh, it's alright, I know,” John purred, placing an affection peck upon the tip of his nose with a smile. “Just – don't come yet. _Try_ not to. I want to do this for a while… I want to _enjoy_ you. Take my time. Worship _every_... _last_... _inch_. - Is that okay?”

“ _No_ … I don’t… I don’t think I can last for that long,” Sherlock confessed with a wince of humiliation, eyes fluttering up with each new long reverent stroke that John made. "Now is _not_... the time for slow. I can't do _slow--_ "

“Just tell me when you're close and we'll stop, we'll cool off,” John whispered, nuzzling behind his ear as his hand continued a steady rhythm, occasionally twisting to tickle Sherlock's frenulum, to dip into the beading, dripping pre-ejaculate. 

“I’m… close _now_ ,” he grunted thickly, grabbing for John’s wrist with a vice-like, bruising grip, and dropping his head on John’s naked shoulder, panting there, leaving small, warm trails of saliva as he turned to nestle into the crook of his neck. “Stop… what _else_ … tell me what… what else you want?”

John wanted to touch what he had tasted, to feast with all of his senses, and beyond that there was nothing overtly specific, not yet, the only thing he could narrow down with some certainty was he wanted 'Sherlock,' which wasn't hugely helpful suggestion, “I want to be _close_ … like this morning,” he whispered, his cock aching, hands longing to take Sherlock to the peak and back, but he didn't, he merely ran a hand up and down Sherlock's belly, carding his nails through the small smattering of dark hair that lead to his navel. John sympathised with Sherlock. He had seemingly never experienced these sensations and he was drowning, reaching out for John to be his life-raft, putting himself entirely in John's hands. "Want to... be with... be with you. See you, watch you, _pleasure_ you."

Sherlock nodded in agreement in an almost lethargic manner, “ _Yes_ …” he rumbled enthusiastically. “But if you want to bring me to completion, it will not take… take that long. Not long at all.” As if to prove this point, his legs gave a hard quiver and he slumped down, sliding to his knees, body sliding away from John's fingers. “I’m… I’m _sorry_ I…”

John soothed him with a hush and crouched down to take him in his arms, “No, no, it's _okay_ …” he muttered, lifting him, holding him, and carrying him towards Sherlock's chair, it wasn't the most comfortable, but it would be the easier to clean, and so he slouched down on the leather, wincing at the chill of it against his burning nude skin before. Sherlock, of course, tumbled on top of him, straddling the tops of his thighs and tucking his feet under the backs of John's knees. It was perfect. It was amazing. It was more than things had felt, had been, that morning. They were closer, more intimately interlocked. “This is better.” John cupped Sherlock's chin and brought him down for a kiss, a sweet and long and ardent kiss. “I... I don't think I can get enough of your body pressing against mine...”

The lights from the Christmas tree were blanketing them both, were speckling the side of Sherlock’s face, chest, juddering stomach, and the long dribbling, swaying line of pre-ejaculate, in colour, “ _Much_ better, yes,” he mumbled, slumping in against him, nudging their noses together as he went for another kiss, then another, curling his long hand around the back of John’s neck as they got messier, wetter, hotter.

“Can I...” John muttered, stopping Sherlock when he went to change the angle and went in to kiss him harder, feeling slightly stupid for even asking as he slowly slid his hands around until both were cupping Sherlock's naked bottom, rubbing and exploring. He stroked his thumbs up and down the soft, peach like skin and let their kissing continue, going for one, then another, then a third, pushing his tongue in around Sherlock's, his own cock leaking light strand of pre-come against his stomach. " _Christ_..."

“You can touch… any part of… of me that you want,” Sherlock whispered, staying as still as he could, shaking and twitching and heavily breathing, until he seemed to get bored with it, impatiently so, and pushed back into John’s hands, rocking his hips. The underside of his buttocks and the hot shape of his tensed scrotum, skimmed John’s thighs. “ _Any part_.” 

“Not yet...” John replied into the corner of Sherlock's lips, “Not there…” John would have loved to watch Sherlock fall apart using only his fingers, but that was too much of a big step for him, for them. That was something that John wasn't quite ready for yet. Instead he set a steady rhythm by pushing on Sherlock's bottom, pushing him up so that their cocks rubbed together, and then pulling back so Sherlock's bollocks across his own, and along his thigh. “Actually... use... use your hand to push us together. A tunnel for us to both _fuck_ into… I'll keep the rhythm up.”

Blinking widely at the suggestion, like the thought had never occurred to him, like he had no idea it was even something that people did, Sherlock leaned back, reached down and took a firm grasp of them with a shaky hand, flexing his hips forward to grind up into it, up against John. It was immediately addicting for him, made him all the more flushed, made his mouth drop open on a throaty groan, and he began to rut forward with more and more passion, adding his other hand in a daze of bewilderment.

“Good, isn't it?” John surged up to messily kiss him, overwhelmed with the sensations. They weren't going to last, neither of them, and it was painfully obvious, yet John continued to push and shove Sherlock, to arch up himself, to get the two of them through the pleasurable clasp of Sherlock's hand. It sent shivery pulses of passionate longing through every nerve, every neuron firing up with a frenzy of desire. “You're _fucking_ gorgeous.” John looked up at the man's flushed cheeks, his fuzzy hair, his widely blown pupils. “I want to keep you like this _forever_.”

Torn between staring back and watching how his hands enveloped them, skin slicked wet, Sherlock mewled softly in fervor and swiped a deft thumb over their sensitive heads, mixing the fluid there with a lustful, slightly possessive baring of his teeth, “ _Yes_ …” he hissed, brow, upper lip, and chest gleaming with perspiration.

“Keep you... keep you smelling like me...” John said breathlessly, knowing he was almost at his peak, “Rub my scent into you and – and – show everyone you're mine.” He gasped, fingertips digging into Sherlock's arse roughly, hard enough to mark as he increased the pace and speed, grunting with each successive thrust as he bit his lip and closed his eyes, losing himself. “ _Oh god_ … Sherlock, kiss me… I'm _close_.”

There was rapidly exhaled puffs of air against his face, his mouth, and then Sherlock slotted their noses together clumsily, emitting a long, rasping moan as he connected them, “Ejaculate over me again… I _want_ it… I want it _on me_ … please… fucking _brand_ me…”

John gasped at Sherlock's words and that was all it took, no way he would be able to hold back now. Eyes flying open, John moaned loudly and bucked up his hips as his cock pulsed and throbbed, taking two more rough tugs before he was coming with a bitten off scream, spurting up his abdomen and across Sherlock's hand in long, thick strands. Removing his hands from Sherlock, still in the middle of his orgasm, John moved them to his stomach and scooped up his ejaculate, putting one handful across Sherlock's shaft, which he massaged and stroked, whilst the other he rubbed into Sherlock's stomach, chest and finally his nipples, running his fingers ran across the swollen nubs, coating them and tugging and flicking and pinching.

With hitching cry, Sherlock bowed his head forward, thrust his hips and erupted between them, catching John’s abdomen and arm, as well as splattering his own squirming torso, “Oh… _oh God_ …” he wheezed, tipping forwards to collide with John with a moist, slicked push. "Oh _fuck_... fuck... oh..."

“Yes… Yeah that's it...” John rambled, turning to press their heads together as Sherlock trembled, seemingly as weak as a kitten as he shivered in John's arms. Without thought, without any form of hesitation, any pausing thought and sobering realisation, John looped his arms around him and tucked him closer, caressing up and down Sherlock's back, feeling the goosebumps which erupted under his fingers. “Sh, it's alright, you're alright...”

“Yes… I… yes…” he slurred in response, cock still twitching roughly from where it was trapped and squeezed against John’s stomach, still faintly pulsing out oozing droplets of liquid heat. “ _S’good_ … John…”

John bumped and nudged him until Sherlock lowered his head to his shoulder, then kissed his temple, basking in the scent of him, of their combined lust and musk. The golden afterglow of his orgasm was already waning, but Sherlock's seemed to be endless, so John made sure to stroke, sweep and rub at his skin, keeping him warm and secure whilst he enjoyed his post-orgasmic haze.

He knew the dreaded stab of panic would come, but not yet. Not yet. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us! 
> 
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> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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